Up a Tree with No Way Down

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was close to seven when I finally got out of the clinic. I knew that Sandy had fed the kids earlier. I just hoped that there was something left over for me.

I was greeted with a house full of gloom when I walked through the kitchen door.

“Morris is nowhere to be found this evening,” Sandy said. “The kids are upset.”

“Well, let’s go see if we can find him,” I said

All the kids followed me out the door.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I called as we walked across the backyard. Then when there was no response, we walked down the driveway, repeating the call as we walked along. 

When we reached the end of the driveway, there was a weak “meow” in response to our call.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“I heard it,” Brenda said. “But I don’t know where it was from.”

I called again, “Here, kitty, kitty.”

“Meow, meow,” came the response, louder this time. 

“We are close,” I said. “You continue to call, and I will l listen.”

All the kids called, I stepped back off the driveway a bit, and Morris spoke again. I looked up, and there he was, probably thirty feet up a fir tree at the end of the driveway.

“There he is, up a tree,” I said as I pointed him out to the kids.

“What are we going to do?” Amy asked. “How is he going to get down?”

“He’ll come down when he gets hungry enough,” I said.

The following morning, Amy and Brenda were just coming into the house when I got up.

“He is still up there, Dad,” Brenda said. “Maybe we should call the fire department.”

“We are not going to call the fire department for a cat that can’t figure out how to come down from a tree,” I said. “If he is not out of the tree by tomorrow evening, we will figure out something to do.”

“What are you thinking about doing tomorrow night?” Sandy asked as we sat down for breakfast.

“Maybe I could cut the tree down,” I said. “When they have tree huggers in the trees on a logging site, they come down when the loggers fire up the power saw.”

“No, that would be too dangerous for Morris,” Brenda said. “Maybe we could put a board up to his branch to help him down.”

“Brenda, he is almost thirty feet up the tree. We don’t have a board that long,” I said. “I guess we could put some plastic pipe together that would be long enough. We could put some burlap on the end of the pipe for him to grab onto and lower him down that way.”

“That might work,” Amy said.

“I think the power saw is easier,” I said.

***

The kids were all down by the tree when I got home from the clinic. Morris had not moved from his branch. At least he hadn’t climbed higher in the tree.

“We brought some food and water down here this time,” Dee said. “He still doesn’t try to come down.”

“I’m going to get the power saw,” I said. 

“Dad, no!” the kids said in unison.

“Listen, in all my years as a veterinarian, I have never treated a cat that had been stuck in a tree,” I said. “Now, what does that tell you?”

“It means the fire department got them down,” Brenda said.

“It means they figure it out sooner or later,” I said. “How would everyone feel if we had the fire department out here working on getting a cat out of a tree, and they missed a call for a house fire. What if a kid died in that house fire while the firemen were out here getting a cat out of a tree.”

“Just don’t hurt Morris,” Amy said.

I got the power saw from the shed and took it to the base of the tree. I pulled the choke out and pulled the starting cord. The saw started. I adjusted the choke and let the saw idle for a moment.

Then I gave it the gas and let the chain run. It made a big racket. Morris started down the tree. He sort of tumbled down, several branches at a time, and then fell the last ten feet, landing on his feet in the moss around the base of the tree. I turned the saw off.

The kids swarmed Morris. He was fine and happy to be on the ground.

“See, they tell me it is the same with the tree huggers,” I said. “When the saw starts up, they can’t get down that tree fast enough.”

“He could have hurt himself,” Brenda said.

“If that was the case, I would have seen at least one cat in the last ten years that was injured by coming down a tree,” I said. 

The kids carried Morris to the house and gave him a can of cat food and a bowl of water. He would be treated like a king for the next few days.

“You guys treat him so special. He’ll figure it out and be out there climbing another tree next week,” I said.

Photo by Elena Yunina on Pexels.

An Eventful Pigeon Hunt

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It had been a long walk up Catching Creek Road in the early morning August sun. Don Miller and I had been trying to hunt pigeons for the last couple of weeks and had identified this ridge as their crossing point between creek valleys.

“Next trip, we should get someone to drive us,” Don said. “I’m tired, and we haven’t even started up the hill yet.”

“Mom said she would drop us off next time,” I said. “She was busy this morning.”

We finally came to the end of the Davenport fields, and the old logging road that turned up to the ridge was waiting.

“This climb is the only thing wrong with this idea,” Don said. “I know we watched those flocks fly over this ridge, but I worry that this will be a lot of work for nothing.”

“I think it is going to be great,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

The climb was not bad. The road had been unused for ten years, and small alder trees were growing out of the roadbed in some areas, but no real brush. Before we knew it, we were at the top of the ridge.

The ridge top was flat and had a roadbed running its full length of over two hundred yards. The regrowth of trees was just high enough to provide us cover but didn’t obstruct our view. The only issue was the back side of the ridge was brushy and steep.

“I think we want to shoot these birds out in front of us,” I said. “If we shoot them overhead, they will fall down the back side of this ridge, and it doesn’t look like it would be easy to retrieve them.”

We were just getting rested from the climb when the first flock of pigeons came into view as they flew around the knob hill a half a mile up the creek. 

This was a large flock of several hundred birds. They would come down Catching Creek and fly over this ridge heading to the orchard of cherry trees on Matheny Creek. The main flock had a half dozen scout birds a hundred yards out in front.

“They are going to cross down by the trees,” Don said as he started at a trot. I stayed in the middle of the ridge top.

Don shot the first bird to cross the ridge. The main flock changed directions and crossed the ridge over my position. Lesson learned, allow the scout birds to cross unmolested.

With a large flock crossing our position every half hour, we had our limits of ten birds each in less than two hours. We loaded up and started home.

I stopped when we reached the road heading down the hill.

“Why don’t we just follow this ridge top? It should drop us right down onto Catching Creek,” I said. “It shouldn’t be very brushy on the top of the ridge.”

“I think it will put us right down onto the Felsher place,” Don said.

It was approaching noon, and the August sun was out in full force. The trees along the ridge provided some shade, but it was still hot as we scurried along.

The brush became thicker when the ridge top ended and the hill slopped toward the valley floor. I was in front and picked the trail, and I only had to keep from swatting Don with branches that I had bent out of the way.

Finally, we broke out of the brush and had the upper field of the Felsher place in front of us. We crossed the fence and stopped in the middle of their orchard.

Picking a couple of apples from their Gravenstein tree, we sat down in the shade and rested against the tree trunk. We ate our apples with idle conversation and admired our clutch of birds.

“I would say that we have found the best place to shoot pigeons in the whole area,” I said.

“Now, we just need to keep it quiet,” Don said. “Of course, climbing that ridge will keep most people out of there.”

We had a nice serene view in front of us. The Felsher house was at the end of this field. It was a white, wood-frame farmhouse with two stories. This field sat on a bench of land above the valley of Catching Creek. The barn was around the hill a way and not in view.

My mother had grown up with the Felsher kids. Stanley was killed in the Batan Death March, and Connie was Mom’s best friend. Mr. Felsher had died several years ago, and Mrs. Felsher, an old lady in her eighties, lived alone.

One of the Drip brothers, my name for them, walked out from town every day to work for Mrs. Felsher, helping in and around the house.

As Don and I munched on our apples, we noticed smoke coming from one of the open windows in the Felsher house. Then the Drip guy and Mrs. Felsher came running out of the house, followed by a bellow of smoke from the open door.

The Drip guy was waving his arms up and down, and Mrs. Felsher held her head with her hands. 

I looked at Don.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

Now flames were coming from the windows and the open door.

“It doesn’t look like we can do anything,” Don said.

Flames engulfed the house in minutes and would be a total loss.

A County Forest Fire truck arrived about then. The truck pulled up to the house, and the guy got out and talked with his hands on his hips with Mrs. Felsher. There was nothing to do at this point, and he did not get a hose out of his truck.

Shortly, the roof collapsed into the fire, and it was all but a pile of ashes in less than an hour. The fireman loaded Mrs. Felsher and the Drip guy into his truck and left.

Don and I looked at each other, almost not believing what we had witnessed. We picked up our birds and headed to Felsher lane and the bridge across Catching Creek leading to home.

Photo by Dhakshna Moorthy from Pexels

Wild Horses, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Standing at the corral fence, we were looking at the ugliest horse that I had ever seen. She was an older roan mare that my father-in-law, Jim Leibelt, had just adopted from the Bureau of Land Management Wild Horse Adoption Center in Burns.

She looked like she had just stepped off a Spanish galleon, a real mustang in every sense of the word. Her massive head dominated her features. It made her appear unbalanced, almost like a trout living in a stream with little or no food source. Long hair hung from her lower jaw, making her head look larger than it was. Her hooves were large and splayed out from a lifetime on the open range. Her ribs were countable, indicating that grass on that range was sparse.

She paced up and down the far fence of the corral, uneasy with our presence. Her experiences with people had likely been unpleasant. She would rest her head on the upper rail at times as if she was trying to gauge the height. Just in case she needs to jump out.

“Are you sure want to pregnancy check her, Jim? I asked.

“I would like know, just so we can make some plans for taking care of a foal,” Jim said.

“How do you think we are going to do that without getting killed?” I asked. “I don’t think I am going to be interested in standing behind her.”

“I figure we can run her in the chute,” Jim said.

“I am not much of a horse doctor, but I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said. “She would tear herself up in there.”

“The other option is to run her into the crowding alley and throw a rope on her, and you can check her reaching over the fence,” Jim said.

“We can try it that way,” I said. “We might get lucky.”

Jim opened the gate into the alley, and she ran right in when he started over the fence on the far side of the corral. He closed the gate, and we pushed her up the alley toward the squeeze chute. Jim lassoed her and tied the rope to a post at the end of the alley.

All hell broke loose. When the mare realized she was tied, she fought the rope for all she was worth. She pulled back, throwing her feet in all directions. Her front hooves seemed to reach the top rail of the alley. This fight went on for a surprisingly long time before she choked herself enough to settle down.

The walkway on the outside of the alley fence allowed me easy access to her. The major problem was it was on her left side with her head to my left. That meant that I would have to check her with my right hand. I was almost blind with my right hand rectally. That was sort of a funny thing. I trained myself to do rectal exams with my left hand, leaving my right free for any other tasks that may be needed. I could almost see with my fingertips of my left hand, not so with my right hand.

With a lubed plastic sleeve on my right hand, I took a deep breath and leaned over the upper rail. The old mare had decided that she caught; she did not move as I inserted my hand into her rectum. I advanced my arm, halfway to my elbow my hand bumped right into a foal. Pregnant for sure, I swept my hand over the fetal head and feet. I would guess close to 6 months. Good enough for family work.

“Jim, she is about six months pregnant,” I said as I pulled my arm out and stood up, thankful for being in one piece. “That is a rough estimate, but pregnant for sure. Now we just have to get that rope off her.”

I had never been more thankful for a quick-release honda. Getting this rope off this mare without a quick-release would be difficult if not dangerous. I grabbed the short leather thong on the quick-release and gave it a good pull. Then I quickly ducked as the rope flew when the mare threw her head up and quickly backed out of the alley. 

I was thankful that it was over. It was a little sad that she was not the only wild horse I would have to deal with in those early years. When BLM started adopting the wild horses gathered from the Eastern Oregon rangelands, it seemed everyone wanted a free horse.

***

I slowed the truck to a crawl as I made a couple of the sharp corners on Old Holley Road. I looked carefully for the driveway to the place on the corner. They had called to have a horse castrated.

A small group of people was in the pasture behind the barn, standing and talking while watching me pull my truck into the pasture. 

“Is this where I am supposed to geld a horse?” I asked after I rolled down my window.

“Yes, this is the place, Doc,” Ed said.

“Where is the horse?” I asked.

“He is in the shed there,” Ed said, pointing to a small shed behind the barn.

“Well, let’s get him out here, this pasture looks like a good spot to do the surgery,” I said.

“Can’t do that, Doc,” Ed said. “He is sort of wild. I don’t think he has ever had a hand laid on him. We don’t have any facilities for handling a wild horse. We just offloaded him into that shed, and that has been his home for the last few days.”

Great, I thought, now I get the rest of the story. I don’t know what they expect me to do with a wild horse, free in a pen, and has never been touched by man.

I entered the shed, there was a large gray stallion, cautiously eating hay out of the feed rack. He glanced at me but did not seem concerned at my presence. My guess was he had been around people at some point in his life. Many wild horses on the range have gone wild from some of the ranches in the area.

Just the week before this call, I had read an article in Veterinary Medicine, a minor professional journal. This article was about sedating a horse in this circumstance. They suggested using a full ten cc of Acepromazine, a popular tranquilizer, in a syringe, squirted into the mouth of the horse. There would be rapid absorption through the oral mucus membranes, plus whatever he swallowed. It just might be the ticket with this guy.

Ed came over to the truck when I returned for my rope and a syringe full of Acepromazine.

“What do you think, Doc?” Ed asked. “Are you going to be able to handle this guy?”

“My first thought was just to leave,” I said. “You need to be a little more forthcoming with information when you schedule an appointment. But I do have a trick to try on this guy. If it works, we can maybe get the job done. If it doesn’t, you are on your own.”

I returned to the shed and offered the stallion a handful of grain. He quickly nibbled at it and nuzzled my hand for more.

“You know what grain is and where it comes from,” I said to the horse who was still nuzzling my hand. 

I took another handful of grain and held out my hand for him, making him stretch his head through the feed rack to reach the grain. As he ate, I slipped the syringe into the corner of his mouth. He did not object. Then with a hard push, I shot the full dose into his mouth. He reared and pulled his head out of the feed rack, getting a good gash on the top of his head.

The reaction was rapid. Within a minute, his head was starting to hang down. Giving him a little more time for the Ace to work, I returned to the truck and got everything ready to anesthetize him and do the surgery.

Then I threw a rope around his neck and led a staggering horse out into the pasture.

Surgery was a breeze. Less than 2 grams of Pentathol was needed to put him under anesthesia. I laid him on his right side and pulled his left leg out of the way with a sideline. He was 4 or 5 years old, and his testicles needed a strong pull to break the cremaster muscles, but other than that, it was a standard castration. I removed the bottom of the scrotum and stretched the incision to allow for adequate drainage. Then I gave an injection of long-acting penicillin and his Tetanus vaccination. I didn’t want any complications with this guy.

“Doc, how would you recommend we tame this guy down?” Ed asked as we waited for him to recover. 

“I would get a halter on him and a long chain to a heavy tire or something he can drag around the pasture for a few days,” I said. “This guy is not completely wild. He knows what grain is, and with a little work, he will tame right down. If you work with him several times a day, you will have him tamed down quickly. Then you can figure out which one of you are going to try to ride him.”

That proved to be adequate advice. The horse was dragging the wheel around the pasture for a week or two, and then Ed had him eating out of his hand. He became an excellent horse for them.

Photo Credit: Photo by Rodolfo Quirós from Pexels